


not in the dark but far from the light

by themazepunner



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, M/M, Newt (Maze Runner) Lives, No dying in here, Sorry about any momentary heartbreak though, This was so close to actually happening so I wrote it, We'll get to the Newtmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-01-31 01:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themazepunner/pseuds/themazepunner
Summary: All Thomas wants to do is make things right.Series based on the song Are You With Me by Nilu
Relationships: Brenda & Newt (Maze Runner), Brenda & Thomas (Maze Runner), Frypan & Gally (Maze Runner), Frypan & Newt (Maze Runner), Gally & Newt (Maze Runner), Gally & Thomas (Maze Runner), Minho & Newt (Maze Runner), Minho & Thomas (Maze Runner), Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner), Teresa Agnes & Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 212





	1. not in the dark but far from the light

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time posting on AO3. Please be nice. Part 1 of idk how many. We'll see.....

Thomas believes that, when things aren’t falling into place, he should make them fall into place. A little shove here or there. A forced twist or a directed turn. An entire shifting of events until they seem right. A moral puzzle. 

But, there are times when he has the wrong pieces or when, no matter how hard he pushes or how many combinations he tries, it just won’t fit together. There are times when it all fits, but the end picture makes no sense, like it’s all been printed wrong. There are times when the pieces are out of his reach.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

The two words circle through his mind. He hangs on to them, desperately, willing them to be true. He needs them to be true. 

Not yet. This can’t happen yet. Not now. Give me more time. Give him more time.

His heart pounds violently in his chest. It hurts him. The way it seems to constrict, more and more with each beat, wrapping itself around each of his lungs, squeezing them so tightly that breathing feels impossible. It feels wrong— so wrong. All of it. He feels as though somebody’s taken his body and shaken it up, shuffling through his organs so that nothing is in the right place. The world feels much the same. Shaken, rearranged. Wrong.

But, no matter how bad he feels-- no matter how gut-wrenchingly sick this fear is making him— none of it compares to Newt. 

Newt. 

He’s always been the anchor to Thomas’ admittedly unpredictable boat. Wherever they’ve been and whatever they’ve been through, Newt has been there to keep him grounded --every time, without fail. If Thomas feels lost, Newt brings him home. 

Newt grunts as he stumbles a little, so Thomas tightens his grip around his friend’s waist, digging his fingers into Newt’s jacket. Not yet. It feels like Newt’s becoming heavier and Thomas isn’t sure if that’s due to his own strength failing or that Newt’s legs are giving out. Neither is good. Nothing is good. None of this is good. It’s all wrong.

They’re in the Last City. Thomas has his arm around Newt’s waist because without it Newt would fall. The Flare virus had never been kind to anyone, but Thomas has the bitter thought that it’s being especially cruel to Newt. It’s let him come all this way, helped him rescue their friend Minho from WCKD and escape the building just in time for it to take over his body almost entirely. Almost, because it hasn’t taken full effect yet. It hasn’t taken his whole brain, just part of it. It’s running him down, bit by bit, one cell at a time, exhausting him before it finally takes charge.

All around them, the city is in chaos. Fire barges its way through buildings and streets, filling the air with a thick, suffocating smoke. The sounds of gunshots and screams surround them wherever they go. Hell on Earth.

Thomas pauses and turns to look around them, pulling Newt with him, not daring to lose grip for even a moment. Which way was it? He clings to the fabric of Newt’s jacket like it’s the only thing holding him together. Which way? Where are they going? 

There. Through that building. Towards the station. 

He grunts. Each second demands more strength than the last. Newt’s left leg drags limply along the concrete behind them. Dead weight. Whatever fight he had left is diminishing quickly but he just needs to hold on. Just a little longer; they’re only waiting on one thing.

Grab the serum and get back to us as soon as you can.

Those were the words he’d said. Minho would do it. He’d be back with the serum. The serum would buy more time. Minho would be back before…

It isn’t far. They could still make it. They can still do it. It’ll be okay. It always is. 

Newt groans in a pained voice that isn’t his. Thomas’ breath hitches in his throat. His mind flashes with all the possibilities. He’s never seen someone become a crank before --at least, not that he remembers. Regardless of whether he’s seen it, he gets the feeling that he’s about to. Time is running out.

Then make time, Thomas. Find a way to make time. 

“Come on,” he mutters to himself. “Come on,” he repeats it louder. This time for Newt.

They’re through the doors. He can see the station ahead. Good. That’s good. It means they’re close. Only a block or so to the outer wall. It’s good. They can make it.

“We’re almost there, Newt.” 

The words are just as much for Newt as they are for Thomas. Consolation. For both of them. Something to hold onto. Something tangible. A place to get to. Not far. Not far to go now. 

Newt slips a little and Thomas’ heart skips a beat as he adjusts his grip, holding the other boy even tighter. “Stay with me,” he urges. “Come on.” 

Thomas needs Newt to hear it. He needs Newt to stay. Right now, he needs Newt more than anything. He needs Newt and not that sick, rampant virus taking over his brain. He needs to see that knowing look, that smirk, that frustrated scowl that always came with a hint of affection. He needs the person who told him not to give up, and that he matters, and who told him there was a place for him somewhere. Thomas needs Newt.

But Newt’s body is choking and his legs give out and suddenly he’s slipped from Thomas’ hands, tumbling down in an awkward heap. Thomas reaches out. 

“Newt, no, no!”

He wraps his arms behind Newt’s shoulders to stop his head from hitting the floor. Heart racing, he lowers him down and Newt’s gasping for breath, heaving in, spluttering on the dark ooze that won’t let up. 

In a panic, Thomas leans in, tilting his head so that his ear lines up with Newt’s heart. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief when he hears that much-too-fast heartbeat. Much too fast.

It doesn’t matter if it’s fast, he tells himself. It’s still there. Still beating. He’s alive.

He needs to stay that way. 

Thomas can see the effort it’s taking Newt just to breathe. Wheezing, heaving, he sucks in desperate gasps of air, only to cough more of that… gunk up. He’s going to need all the help Thomas can give him, so Thomas is going to give him everything. 

“Come on!” 

Thomas reaches under Newt’s arms and heaves him up, adjusts his grip so he’s hugging Newt close to his chest, clinging on like a scared kid. He starts to drag Newt along, unsure if he’s even conscious at this point. 

Come on, come on, come on. Almost there.

He’s barely made it a few feet before Thomas is struggling. His arms quiver with the effort and his muscles strain, protesting against the whole world. Newt’s body is slack, unmoving, and Thomas tries— he tries so hard— to keep going. His mind is screaming at him. KEEP GOING. HOLD ON. YOU CAN’T GIVE UP.

But, despite his mind, his legs do stall, give up, and both Newt and Thomas fall to the floor. 

Newt collapses on top of Thomas. Thomas waits, watches Newt.

Still breathing, he notes. Newt’s still breathing.

He’s struggling to get his own breathing under control, grappling to think of his next move. Does he keep moving, or is it better to wait here? How far are the others? Can he convince Newt to find some inner strength? Is this it? The end?

“Thomas.”

The voice comes from above. The speakers. The P.A. system. Thomas recognises it immediately. He’d know that voice anywhere. That was the voice that had come to him in his dreams, back in the maze, before he even knew who it belonged to. 

Teresa.

“Can you hear me?”

What does she want? How does she know he’s still here? Where is she?

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I need you to come back. Thomas, you can save Newt. There’s still time for him.”

Thomas pulls himself out from under Newt and stands up, drifting aimlessly towards the sound of Teresa’s voice, willing her words to bring him some kind of miracle.

What does she mean? He can save Newt without going back. For a while, anyway. The rest, he’d figure out. He just needs the serum. They just need the serum. Buying time. That’s all they need to do. Minho will be here soon. He’ll have it with him. They just need to sit tight. 

Why does she want him to come back?

“There’s a reason Brenda isn’t sick anymore. It’s your blood. Do you understand? She isn’t sick because you cured her.”

Her words hit him hard, unexpectedly, like a slap in the face. Abrupt. A lump forms in Thomas’ throat. He blinks, his eyes stinging. It can’t be true. It can’t be. It’s not that simple. There isn’t a cure. There is no cure. It was all for nothing. All of it.

But her words do hold some truth. Brenda hasn’t needed a thing from Thomas since they left the mountains. Her symptoms are long gone, haven’t returned and, in all honesty, she seems healthier than ever. 

Did Thomas do that? 

“She doesn’t have to be the only one. All you have to do is come back and this will all finally be over.”

Come back. She wants him to come back to WCKD. He’s just gotten Minho out of there, through an elaborate rescue mission and now… she wants him to walk back in? Just like that?

Only, he thinks, it isn’t just like that. Newt is dying. Quickly. If Thomas could do something to save him...

Teresa’s voice comes back. “Please. Just come back to me. I know you’ll do the right-”

Then, just as abruptly as it came, her voice is gone. Cut off. Thomas stands in darkness for a few seconds, before sudden, blinding lights penetrate the air, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut, still reeling from the information, trying to make sense of something among the chaos. 

He steps back, tries to ground himself. Somehow, against all odds, he trusts her. Thomas trusts Teresa. The thought alone somehow shocks and reassures him, simultaneously. Maybe there is hope, even if just a little. Just enough to take and use. Just enough to save Newt; that’s all he needs. 

He knows what he wants to do; he just doesn’t know how to do it. He knows the piece is there, but how does he make it fit?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Not now. He shakes his head, clearing it. First, he has to keep moving and get Newt to the others. Whatever comes next, he’ll decide at the time.

So, he turns back to Newt, mentally preparing himself to pick him up and keep going. 

Newt’s standing.

His back is to Thomas, facing the way they came from. He’s moving so slowly -- so surely-- to his feet that Thomas stops in his tracks. This isn’t right. Newt could barely hold his own head up. His body had given out, collapsed, drained, exhausted. Now it’s as though he has more strength than ever before. A sinking feeling settles in Thomas’ stomach as he asks the question:

“Newt?”

When the figure turns, Thomas goes numb.

You’re not Newt.

The crank roars.

“Newt! Newt!” Thomas screams, as if yelling louder will startle the crank enough to let Newt through. “Please!”

He’s been holding him back, fighting the crank off. The worst part is that he knows that Newt’s still in there somewhere. He sees it in moments of hesitation, a sudden crumple of his brow, the ways his lips part and eyes widen in fear. That’s Newt.

And Thomas doesn’t want to hurt him.

So, he fends off the crank, pushing him away, pinning him down, diving away from his blows, biding his time. Anything but fighting back. Anything but hurting Newt. Anything but that. He wouldn’t ever forgive himself. 

The crank pushes Thomas and he stumbles back, losing his balance. Again, the crank charges forward, knocking him to the floor, climbing on top of him. 

“Newt!” Thomas cries, struggling to keep the crank’s hands away from his throat. “Newt, please!”

Hurry up, Minho. Please hurry. Where are you?

He needs to bring Newt back somehow. Newt won’t fight him. Newt will give them both time. He needs Newt.

Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

“Newt, please! It’s Thomas! It’s me! It’s Thomas!”

There’s a flicker of something in the crank’s eye. It’s replaced with an expression that Thomas recognises. A familiar face. 

Thomas breathes a sigh of relief to see his friend staring down at him. “Newt…”

Newt sucks in a deep breath, coughs, blinks rapidly, startled, like he’s been woken from a deep sleep. “Tommy. S- sorry, Tommy. I’m sorry.”

Newt shouldn’t be sorry. Newt has no reason to be sorry. He’s done nothing wrong. He’s here, after all. Thomas should thank him, for God’s sake. They still have time.

“It’s okay,” Thomas says, trying to calm him down because Newt looks so scared. “It’s okay.” 

It’s not okay. Not really. But it’s fucking paradise compared to the alternative. Newt’s here. He’s breathing. He’s alive.

Not yet, Thomas reassures himself. He’s still here.

So, when Newt pulls the gun from Thomas’ pocket and holds it to his own head, Thomas lets out a guttural scream.

“NO!”

The gun is knocked across the concrete before Thomas even registers what his hands are doing. Newt turns back to him -- only, now it isn’t Newt; now it’s the crank. The crank roars and strikes Thomas, but Newt had raised the gun to his own head.

That was his apology. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done, but what he’d been about to do.

Compelled by a surge of bone-chilling fear, Thomas fights back.

He’s always assumed that Newt was strong --probably stronger-- but Thomas never had to find out; there had never been any reason to test that. It’d never really mattered before. Now, it does matter and maybe it’s due to the effects of the virus on his body, but the crank is strong; he has Thomas pinned, tight. 

Using all his strength, Thomas shifts his weight one way and then the other, tilting the balance enough so that he can push Newt off, sending him on to his hands and knees, shocked. Newt stays there, staring at the ground and, for a brief moment, Thomas can breathe. 

Time. Buying time. They still have time. 

The crank pulls out a knife.

One swipe through the air sends Thomas falling flat on his back, ducking down, narrowly avoiding the sharp blade. The crank seizes the opportunity, pinning Thomas again, this time with his legs, knife in both hands, poised at Thomas’ chest. Thomas raises his hands and braces them against the crank’s arms, pushing back with everything he has, ignoring the burn in his muscles and his shortness of breath. 

“Newt!”

The knife edges closer. 

No, no, no. He’s too strong. Too strong.

“Newt! NEWT!”

The knife touches Thomas’ shirt, nicks it, then carries on through. Thomas screams as it pierces his skin, digging into muscle. 

Panicking, he kicks out. Hard. The crank falls. Thomas stands. Before the crank can drag him back down, Thomas throws a punch, sending him back down.

It’s not Newt. Not Newt.

But, no matter how he tries to fight back, the crank gets back up, never losing strength. So, when the crank charges, Thomas dodges the blade. It swipes past him. Left. Right. Left again. Too close. The crank swipes again and Thomas catches a glimpse of something behind Newt. Movement. Very close by. Getting closer. 

One glimpse. He loses focus for less than a second. The crank falls into him, the knife mid swing, and, as he holds him close, Thomas hears a sickening sound. He knows immediately what it is.

The knife had gone in, but Thomas felt no pain. 

He takes a shaky breath, not wanting to believe what he’s thinking. “Newt?”

Thomas pulls away slowly, dreading what he would find. Is it him? Did the crank stab him? Is he numb with adrenaline? Or is it something unthinkable?

Thomas looks into Newt’s eyes and sees his best friend staring back, eyes wide with disbelief. As he pulls back further, he spots the knife, buried deep in Newt’s chest.

No.

Newt’s legs give out and Thomas rushes to catch him, cushioning his fall, resting Newt’s head in his lap. Newt’s breathing frantically, staring up at the sky. His eyes squeeze shut for a second and open again before he coughs, clearing black fluid. 

There’s blood. So much blood. It’s frighteningly dark --almost black-- but it spills out around the blade of the knife just like any other blood. Thomas wants to be sick.

“Thomas!” calls a voice from behind them. Thomas doesn’t turn. He can’t look away from Newt.

“Thomas!” 

And then Brenda’s beside them, injecting the serum into a vein in Newt’s arm. Acting cautiously, not removing the knife, she rips some fabric from her shirt and wraps it carefully around the entry point, trying to slow the bleeding. She holds it in place.

Thomas watches Newt.

Still breathing.

“Newt?”

There’s another voice now. Minho. Thomas still doesn’t look up. He’s watching Newt’s face, watching how he glares up at Thomas, his eyes darting quickly back and forth. He hears a low growl. Thomas watches as he blinks again, eyes widening, filling with tears, then screwing up tightly with pain. He watches as his lips press tightly together and his shoulders tense. Newt is fighting battles that Thomas wishes weren’t possible.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Newt, it’s going to be okay.”

There’s another roar and the crank moves, trying to get up. Minho and Gally leap forward to help Thomas, holding the crank down while Brenda keeps pressure on his chest. Thomas holds his head while Gally and Minho pin his legs and arms. He can’t help but notice how the blood flows faster as the crank struggles against them. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. “Please, don’t do this. Not Newt. Not Newt.”

Eventually, the struggling stops and there’s another blink. Newt’s back. He closes his eyes, tightly, then relaxing a little, leaning in to Thomas’ touch. It’s only then that Thomas realises he’s been stroking Newt’s forehead, which is cooling rapidly.

The dark, angry veins littering Newt’s body seem to be fading. For a split second, Thomas gets his hopes up: it’s the serum. The serum is working already. The veins are fading because the virus is losing. The serum’s fighting it off. 

Then, Thomas looks down. He sees the dark blood, coating the ground around them, feels it seeping through his own clothes, still growing in size, frighteningly fast. He looks back at Newt and sees his paling skin and the beads of sweat on his face. 

Newt winces and his breathing becomes more laboured. Thomas’ stomach drops. Gally’s grip is still tight on Newt’s wrists, but Minho’s loosened his a little. Thomas looks up to see him squeeze Newt’s leg in encouragement, but Newt still hasn’t spoken a word.

“C’mon, Newt. You’ve got this,” Thomas tells him. He frowns as Newt’s expression seems to soften and his skin pales even more, now almost translucent. Sickeningly white.

“We’ve gotta go,” Brenda says. “He’s losing a lot of blood. Whether the serum’s working or not, he’s bleeding out.”

There’s a loud bang from somewhere behind them and they all turn to see a group sprint past in the distance, guns blazing. 

“Oh,” Brenda continues, “and I don’t feel like getting shot today.”

Thomas nods once, slowly, unable to bring himself to speak to anyone but Newt just yet. He’s wincing with each breath now, no longer showing any signs of struggling against Minho or Gally. The veins are now less black, more grey. Still visible.

“She’s right; we gotta go. Minho, lift his legs. Thomas, you get his arms. Brenda, hold the knife in place. I’ll cover,” Gally instructs, already getting to his feet. “It’s only a couple blocks. Shouldn’t take us more than a few minutes.”

Suddenly, Newt coughs, his now-freed arms reaching up to hold his stomach. He curls his legs up towards his chest and Thomas helps to roll him to his side. Black liquid spills out on the concrete floor. Brenda struggles as the knife budges a little, worsening the bleeding. 

“We better hurry,” Gally says quietly, eyeing the blood, still pooling alarmingly fast around them. 

So, they do hurry. Thomas grabs Newt under the arms, Minho takes his legs, and Brenda holds the knife. Nobody bothers to count to three; they all just lift and start moving, heading towards the outer wall of the city. 

After a moment, Thomas looks down and sees Newt looking up at him with pleading eyes. His mouth is open and it looks like he’s trying to speak, so Thomas leans in.

“Newt? What is it, buddy? We’re almost there. We’ve got you.”

Newt just takes another shaky breath, followed by a long moment of silence. Thomas is about to move back, believing that Newt’s too out of it to speak back. 

“Leave me.”

His words sting Thomas. Leave me. He said them with such sincerity, like it’s the only thing he wanted. At first, it’s a shock, then, once he’s understood the depth of Newt’s words, Thomas feels struck by some newfound determination and a certain element of coldness.

“Never in a million years,” he whispers back to his friend. “Hurry!” he yells to the others. “Where’s the Berg?” 

Thankfully, Minho’s leading the way, because Thomas would’ve had them all running in circles. “Up ahead!” he shouts back. His voice is muffled a little by gunfire. “The next block!”

Thomas nods instinctively before realising that Minho wouldn’t see him. He glances down at Newt, whose eyes are now closed. Thomas can’t tell if he’s breathing. His muscles clench and his pounds so hard he’s sure he can hear it above the noise of the city.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Don’t give up. Newt. Don’t give up. Not yet.”

Brenda’s eyes are wide and, as they lock with Thomas’, he knows what she’s thinking: 

Newt looks dead.

“Here!” Minho screams, but the announcement of their arrival doesn’t make Thomas feel any less distraught. 

Newt’s eyes are still closed.

They reach the berg and bring Newt inside, lying him down on the floor. Brenda leans in and listens to his chest. She nods quietly to herself. “He’s breathing.”

“Good,” says Thomas. He steps straight back out of the berg.

Vince steps forward, right to the edge. “Woah! Where do you think you’re going, kid?”

Thomas is staring straight at Newt. Brenda’s right. He is breathing. Thomas can see his chest rising and falling now. It needs to stay that way. Long term.

Thomas looks up at the group. “I need to do this.” He shrugs and it feels unnatural. Shivering with adrenaline, he glances back at Newt, wondering if they’ve already used all their miracles. “Someone once told me we all have our roles to play. This is mine.”

Thomas turns and runs without saying another word. He hears them call after him. He almost stops when he hears Minho’s voice. 

But this is about Newt. This is about the boy who never gave up on him, against all odds. This is about the boy who put everyone else before himself. Thomas needs to repay him. He’s not losing Newt. He refuses to give up on Newt. 

Thomas isn’t stupid; he knows that Newt’s survival will take a miracle, but the alternative is too much to bear.

He can’t lose Newt now. Not now. Not after all this.

So, heavy-hearted, pleading with fate, dreading his return, Thomas sets out to force a miracle.


	2. through the flood and through the fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frypan needs to do something. Anything to help.

Frypan watches as the door to the berg closes, muffling the explosions and gunfire happening beyond. Imprinted in his mind is the expression on Thomas’ face; the determination in his eyes despite the exhaustion in all of his features. Fry wonders how quickly that might change. He doesn’t dare to let his mind wander to what might happen if Thomas returns and Newt is dead. 

_ Or if Thomas doesn’t return at all. _

_ No.  _ Frypan shakes his head and blinks rapidly, focusing again on the task at hand.  _ Do all that you can for now. _

He’s been quiet throughout the whole experience, probably due to the adrenaline-- or maybe shock. He doesn’t know, but he needs to snap out of it and do something helpful.

Gally’s voice is the first thing to bring him back. His tone is enough to shock Frypan back into reality and the present. 

“What the hell is he thinking? Running off like that!” 

Gally’s not talking to anyone in particular, instead resorting to pacing the floor of the berg, kicking at the walls and anything else in his way.? “What? Does he expect us just to fly after him? Hover around until he’s had a good old catch up with that  _ traitor?”  _ He turns to the group and throws his hands into the air for good measure.  _ “ _ That shank’s crazy! He’s screwing up all our plans… again!”

“Gally, you’re not helping!” Brenda yells back, still on the floor, hands pressing hard around the knife, still embedded sickeningly deep in their friend’s chest. 

“ _ I’m  _ not helping? Say that to your renegade boyfriend out there! In case you hadn’t noticed, Thomas just ran off on us!” Gally points towards the closed door as if the event was replaying.

Frypan knows he has to step in; Brenda needs to focus on what she’s doing and Minho’s in no state to take part, staring with wide eyes at Newt, trying to comprehend all that’s just happened. 

“Gally,” Fry steps forward, tentatively placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder, hyperaware that it might be shrugged off at a moment's notice. “Brenda’s right. We need to focus on Newt. We’ll deal with Thomas later. As far as we know, he’s okay. Newt isn’t.”

His words have the intended effect, because Gally’s gaze falls back on Newt and Fry can see him trying hard to come up with a way to make everything okay again, the way he’s always wanted.

Fry turns too, and sees Brenda’s hands shaking under the pressure she’s exerting, doing all that she can to stop the seemingly endless flow of blood. He kneels down across from her and places his hands over hers. “I’m taking over,” he states, not giving her an option. 

Brenda nods and edges her hands out from under his, allowing him to take her place. He tries to find the right angle and pressure, but nothing seems to work quite the way he wants it to; there’s too much bleeding.

“Here.”

Someone’s beside him.  _ Vince _ . He’s tossing lumps of gauze onto Newt’s chest from a first aid kit. Someone else kneels down and starts to maneuver them, one by one, under Fry’s hands, packing them around the edge of the blade. Blood is already beginning to ooze through.

“Got any more?” Gally asks Vince, now placing his hands on top of Fry’s to add more pressure.

“Here. Here.” Brenda’s been rummaging around the back of the Berg, scrambling for anything to slow it down. She grabs another first aid pack and slings it to Vince, who zips it open and goes through the motions again, handing each pack to Gally, who does his best to make it all work. 

Frypan is aware of the fact that Minho’s still there, staring, not saying a word or moving an inch. He can’t even begin to imagine what’s going through that boy’s mind right now; months of imprisonment, a terrifying rescue mission, the downfall of a city, the knife in Newt’s chest, all culminating in this horror. Part of him wants Minho to get involved and have a role of his own, but another part of him wants to give the shank a moment to breathe.

“Minho?” Frypan asks. He hadn’t planned to speak, but his body had made the decision for him.

Minho looks up immediately, obviously surprised to hear his name. “Yeah?” he croaks.

Frypan nods towards Newt, his hands far too preoccupied to even consider moving. “Talk to him,” he instructs Minho. 

Newt’s chest is moving with each ragged breath and there’s an element of tension in his face but Frypan has no idea if their friend can even hear them-- if he even knows he’s still alive. Minho has to be thinking the same thing, because he shoots Frypan a quizzical look. 

But Frypan’s determined to give Minho something to do and, on the off-chance that Newt can hear them, the sound of Minho’s voice speaking to him could counter the Flare and remind him of what he has to fight for. It was worth a try at least. 

“If he can hear what we’ve been saying, he’s probably scared out of his mind. Talk to him. Help him out. Let him know we’re here for him. Nobody’s giving up on the shank.”

Minho stares at Fry for a second longer as his mind tries to swing into gear. Once it's caught up, Minho shuffles over to Newt and kneels beside him, leaning in to speak in Newt’s ear. 

Frypan looks back at his hands. The gauze is helping-- or so it seems-- because the blood isn't coming quite so quickly now. But that doesn't change the fact that it surrounds them; Frypan isn't sure how much Newt has left to lose. By the look of it all, he assumes the answer is ‘not much’.

His hands are shaking. 

“Fry,” says Gally, his hands pressing down harder. “Let me.”

Feeling exhaustion creeping in, Frypan obliges, sliding his hands out and wiping them on his pants, trying to ignore just how much blood comes with them. 

He’d faintly registered the berg taking off, but has no concept of time to tell how long they’d been moving. He’s struck by a sudden fear that they’d left the city. Propelled by the harrowing thought, Fry jumps up and moves into the cockpit. 

“Jorge,” he greets the man at the wheel, leaning over him, taking extra care not to touch anything. “Where are we heading?”

Frypan looks ahead of them, breathing a quiet sigh of conflicting relief when he sees the buildings and smoke; they’re still in the city; that much is clear. His mind is a whirlwind of different emotions. There’s hope: they can still get Thomas. However, there’s also dread: they could still put everyone in danger.

The outer wall is visible through the gaps between apartment blocks and office buildings. Huge billows of smoke continue to erupt from where the attacks had begun and Fry can see the different paths the rebels had taken, leaving carnage in their wake. There are swarms of people in the streets, running or fighting for their lives, and it’s hard to tell who is on which side. 

The destruction before them has taken Fry’s attention, so it surprises him when Jorge answers his question.

“We’re not leaving him, hermano, if that’s what you’re asking. Not after all he’s done for us.”

Jorge glances back at Frypan, sighing deeply when he sees the blood, coating Fry’s pants and streaking across his shirt. “How is he?” he asks, eyes back on their route. 

Frypan doesn’t know how to answer that. Sure, Newt’s _there_ and he’s _breathing_ and he’s got a _heartbeat_, but for how long? How much blood could he afford to lose? What damage had the knife done? For how much longer would they have Newt? Is that what Jorge was asking?

His silence must say enough, because Jorge speaks up again. “Whatever happens, you know he’s strong.” Frypan notices as the man’s grip tightens on the controls. “You know he’s fighting back with all that he has.”

Unable to find his voice, Frypan just nods. Jorge’s right; Newt’s strong. He might be the strongest person that Fry knows, but even that doesn’t make him invincible. With a lump in his throat and tight knot in his chest, Fry returns to the back room. He’s faintly aware of the rescued kids, sitting against the walls, watching everything unfold. Some part of him wants to smile at them all-- tell them it’s going to be okay-- but he knows he knows he needs to focus on the task at hand.

Brenda and Gally are still holding Newt’s chest. 

_ That’s good _ , Fry’s brain tells him.  _ He’s still here to fight for _ . 

Minho’s still up by his head, talking to him. About what, Fry doesn’t know, but he trusts Minho to say the right things. If anyone can bring Newt back, it’s Minho. 

There’s a moment, as Fry is looking at Newt, that he freezes. His mind drifts back to the Glade and he’s overcome by the memories that follow: the heartwarming smiles, the infectious laughter, the proud pats on the back, the comforting conversations-- all of them with Newt. It’s only then that reality starts to sink in: Frypan can’t imagine life without Newt.

“Fry?”

He looks down and Gally’s speaking to him.

“Yeah, Gally?”

“What’s going on out there?”

Frypan glances back towards the front of the Berg, thinking over what he’s just seen. How can he begin to explain that the city is falling apart around them, Thomas is somewhere down there, and that their chances of saving both Newt and Thomas are getting slimmer by the second?

He gives it his best go.

“It ain’t pretty, that’s for sure.” He pauses, scratches his head, wondering how Gally might take the next bit of news. “We’re going back for Thomas.”

Much to Frypan’s surprise, Gally just nods to himself. "If he's not dead, I'll kill that shank."

"I know."

Gally returns his gaze to Newt, pressing a little harder as he does so. Fry decides to make himself useful and drops down beside him, removing his jacket and tucking it under Newt’s head and around his shoulders as some dismal attempt to keep him warm.

Brenda adjusts the gauze and takes Newt’s pulse at his neck. She frowns. “Any sign of Thomas?”

Frypan’s about to answer when Jorge calls out from the cockpit, “I see him!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Fry moves to Jorge’s side, peering out at the streets below, trying to make sense of the city amongst the smoke. 

“There!” Jorge yells.

There’s a gap between the buildings and, sure enough, Fry can see him. He’s standing on the street outside the WCKD building. Beside him stands another figure-- Teresa! She’s holding a backpack slung loosely over one shoulder and they’re talking to someone in the entranceway. Fry’s squinting to work it out when Vince speaks up.

“What are they doing? Is that… are they talking to Ava Paige?”

He’s right. It  _ is  _ her. They’re talking to  _ Ava Paige _ , of all people. 

Thomas looks up as the berg flies over and beckons to both Teresa and Ava Paige. 

“He can’t be serious.” 

Fry hadn’t noticed Gally come in and turns around to confirm that Brenda is still with Newt. Spotting her immediately, he wants to kick himself for even considering that they’d leave him there. Stress does funny things to his brain; he’s figured that out for himself over the past three years.

“What do we-”

Gally’s question is interrupted by the flash and pop of gunfire, coming from within the main foyer of the building. Fry watches Teresa and Thomas leap back in fright and it takes a few long seconds for them to realise who’s been hit. 

Ava Paige crumples to the floor as Janson steps out from behind her, gun held high, pointed directly at Thomas.

“No, you don’t,” Gally mutters. Without warning, he reaches out, slams down on one of the control panel switches and runs to the back of the berg, past Newt, Brenda and Minho, making a beeline for the rear door, which is now levering itself open.

Fry runs after him, stopping at the opening to snatch a length of rope. He loops it through Gally’s belt and fastens the other end back in the Berg, forming a makeshift belay system. Gally nods a quick ‘thank you’ and steps out onto the lowered door, raising his gun. Fry holds the rope taut in the hopes of keeping Gally balanced while the berg hovers in the air. 

There’s a sudden cry from the front of the berg, so Frypan moves towards the back, holding himself close to the wall of the berg. He peers out and spies Thomas and Teresa sprinting down the street, away from Janson, who’s now on the ground. 

He watches Janson get to his feet, take aim and shoot, missing Thomas by what must be inches. Fry’s heart is pounding in his chest. He cares deeply about Thomas. Time and time again, Thomas has been there for him, to pull their whole group through the seemingly impossible. To Fry, he’s always had this air of confidence, like nobody could ever touch him -- indestructible. 

Janson shoots again and, this time, the bullet connects.

Thomas stumbles and clasps at his side. Fry watches on, fighting a wave of nausea. As Thomas slows, Teresa wraps her arm around him, pushing him along with her and preventing him from falling. She’s still holding on to the bag, and Frypan wants to scream at her to leave it; whatever’s in there can’t be more important than Thomas’ life. In this moment, their past doesn’t matter to Frypan; he doesn’t care what Teresa has or hasn’t done-- all he wants is for her to protect Thomas until they can get to him.

As Janson steadies himself to fire again, another shot is fired from much closer. Then another and another. With the third shot, Gally hits his target and Janson falls to the ground, blood already spilling out around his head. It was as though he hadn’t even noticed the berg at all, Frypan notes; he’d been so hellbent on taking Thomas down that he’d missed the giant vessel hovering overhead.

Janson is dead; there’s no doubt about that. Nobody could survive that gunshot.

Fry helps to pull Gally back in and untie the rope. “Nice shot,” he remarks.

Gally, being Gally, shakes his head. “We’re not done yet.” He marches to the front of the berg, but not before directing a long glance at Newt.

The veins are no longer visible, but even after all the horror he’s seen over the past years, Frypan doesn’t remember ever seeing anyone so pale. He hurries after Gally and spots Teresa and Thomas down below, heading for an area of open space-- a large plaza, currently untouched by the riots. 

The perfect landing ground.

“Get ready to grab him and go!” Vince shouts. Gally’s left the rear door open, so it’s hard to hear him over both the rushing wind and roaring engines.

Fry and Gally rush back to the opening, each holding on to one side of the wide frame. The buildings pass by below-- some alight, other untouched. Eventually, they slow to a stop, hovering up in the air. 

“Alright! Get him and come back!!” comes Vince’s voice from the front. He’s moving closer, to help out. 

The berg lowers itself between the buildings and Frypan gasps as he sees Teresa and Thomas, only just reaching the plaza, Thomas heavily supported by Teresa now. 

The second the berg touches the ground, Gally and Fry leap off and run. Gally reaches Thomas first. Frypan had expected him to throw an arm around Thomas’ back and support him, so Fry could support him from the other side. Instead, Gally reaches out with both hands and picks Thomas up, pivoting on the spot and heading straight back to the berg. Frypan hesitates and is left standing face to face with Teresa. She’s out of breath, staring longingly after Thomas and Gally. 

Frypan knows that what he’s about to do is going to cause some kind of uproar. There are going to be heated arguments over this. People are going to ask him what he was thinking. 

And, what he’s thinking is that Teresa was saving Thomas’ life. She might save many more. 

Frypan wasn’t a fan of rewarding acts of heroism in death. 

“Come on!” he yells and reaches out a hand. “We’re not leaving you!”

Teresa frowns at him for just a second, reading his expression to figure out if this is some kind of trick. But, when she looks at Fry, whatever she sees in his eyes convinces her otherwise; she trusts him, for now. She grabs hold of his hand and he pulls her with him, back to the berg. 

“Frypan! What are you doing?!” the first voice calls.  _ Vince _ . 

He’ll answer to this later, Fry decides. Not now. So, he doesn’t respond, opting instead to tighten his grip on Teresa’s hand as they reach the Berg, pulling them both in and calling for the door to be closed. 

There’s a loud squeal as the hinges budge and his wish is answered without a moment more of debate; the stakes are too high to waste time arguing now. He lets go of Teresa and rushes over to where Gally’s kneeling beside Thomas, already placing pressure on his side. As Fry reaches the two of them, Gally sits Thomas up and checks his back. 

“Exit wound,” he mutters. “It went right through. That’s good.”

Thomas is pale and weak, but quite conscious. “Doesn’t feel good,” he groans. He squints his eyes closed and takes a deep breath. “Is Newt…?” he tries to ask the dreaded question, trailing off as if finishing it will confirm his worst thoughts.

It’s then that Fry realises that he doesn’t actually know the answer. He and Gally turn to Brenda and Minho for some kind of sign-- any slither of hope that their friend might survive an incurable virus and a knife to the chest.

Much to Frypan’s surprise, Brenda’s still holding pressure and Minho’s still talking into Newt’s ear. 

He watches, and Newt’s chest rises and falls.

_ He’s still alive. _

With a sudden rush of energy, Thomas is pushing Gally away from him and pulling himself on his hands and knees over to where Newt is lying. He stays there for a second, frozen, as he takes in the sight before him; Newt’s deathly pale; his veins are no longer visible; his breathing remains at an impossibly fast rate. After a moment, Thomas turns around. His eyes are glassy.

“Teresa?” he croaks.

She’s seated at the very rear of the berg, keeping her distance from the group, remaining as inconspicuous as possible.

“What’s she got to do with anything?” Gally counters. "What's she even doing here? Fry-"

.

"How long will it take?” Thomas interrupts, ignoring Gally.

There’s no hesitation on Teresa’s end. She knew what he was going to ask before his sentence began. “I can have it ready in ten minutes.”

Instead of answering verbally, Thomas holds out his arm and sits back, wobbling a little. Frypan takes the cue and moves forward to help Thomas towards the wall to lean against something solid, but Thomas shakes him off.

“I’m staying right here,” he says, his voice breaking on the last word. He coughs and clears his throat, wincing as he jostles his wound. “I’m staying by Newt.”

Nobody argues. Frypan and Gally help to hold pressure and slow Thomas’ bleeding while Teresa moves in quickly and holds his arm. With her other hand she reaches into her open bag and pulls out a myriad of supplies. Within seconds, she’s attached a tourniquet. Not even a minute later, she’s drawn blood into a tube and is pulling more equipment from the bag, beginning whatever the next step may be. 

All the while, Frypan is watching Thomas' face closely, keeping an eye out for any sign that he might pass out. Any sign other than the bullet hole in his side, that is. 

He shivers but the smokey air is far from cold.

Satisfied that Thomas is coping for now, Frypan risks a glance at Newt, eyeing the blood, trying not to ponder if his friend has any left to lose. 

As if reading his mind, a weak voice tries to bark orders.

"Stop the bleeding," Thomas says, not removing his gaze from Newt's face. It breaks Fry's heart the way Thomas' eyes plea for Newt's to open. 

Nobody answers him, so Thomas speaks louder. 

"Hurry up and stop it!"

"We're trying, Thomas!" Brenda snaps back. "There's a fucking knife in his chest!"

"Take it out!"

Thomas is in shock, panicking, and desperate to fix this mess. His eyes have been wide with fright and Frypan can see him searching desperately for an answer, rifling through the chaos in his brain and before his eyes, confused by his own pain and blood loss. 

Gally's the one to talk some sense back into him. Keeping a firm grip on the exit wound, he speaks to Thomas.

"Thomas, if we take it out, there's a gaping hole in his chest with nothing to plug it. Keeping the knife in is slowing the bleeding. Until we get some serious help, we can't touch it. This is helping him. It's our best shot."

"We've got medics on the boat!" Vince calls out from the cockpit. "I've radioed through! They're ready to take him when we land!"

"Take him where?" Thomas' head is drooping, so he lies down beside Newt, still staring at his face.

Fry moves with him, keeping pressure on Thomas' front. It seems to be helping.

"Thomas?" he asks. "You stay with us, alright?"

Thomas just nods and closes his eyes.

"Thomas."

"Yeah, yeah. Tell that to him too. Newt needs to stay." He waves a hand loosely in Newt's direction. After a moment, it lowers itself, landing on Newt's pale wrist and staying there, his thumb stroking his skin absentmindedly.

Frypan's about to try one more time to convince Thomas to keep his eyes open when Teresa speaks up.

"Got it!" she announces.

Hastily, she moves over to Newt and grabs his other arm. In her right hand she holds some kind of cylindrical vial, blue liquid visible through the glass. She pulls it back, ready to place it against Newt's arm.

"Woah, woah, woah! Hang on a second! What is that shit?" Gally asks. "What's in there?"

Thomas is quick to answer, eyes now open and wide. "My blood. Teresa, do it."

"How do we know that's what it is?" 

Minho's voice is so out-of-place that everyone freezes. 

"How do we know it isn't poison? Or the shuck flare itself? How do we know it won't make him worse?"

The room is quiet in response. Fry doesn't know what to say. Minho does have a point, but it's exaggerated by all that he's been through and every emotion that comes with that. His mind isn't thinking rationally. Not like it used to; that much is clear.

"Minho, it's this or nothing. And look at what nothing's doing."

Following Fry's prompt, Minho looks down at Newt, observing his pale, clammy skin, pulled taught around his gaunt face. He looks at his eyes, closed with no tension save the slight crease in his brow, barely there. He looks at Newt's chest as it rises and falls, rapid and shallow around the salient blade. 

Finally, Minho looks at Newt's wrist, and the way Thomas' hand rests upon it, trying to hold any connection.

"Shucking do it," he says. "Make it snappy."

Teresa wastes no time, leaning forward and injecting the theorised cure into Newt's arm. If Newt can feel it, he gives no indication, completely still if not for his ragged breathing.

Minho sits back on his heels and continues to talk to Newt. 

Thomas's eyes are fluttering shut again, so Frypan resumes his role, ready to take charge of  _ something. _

"Thomas."

No response. His eyes are closed.

"Thomas, stay with us, man. Come on."

Frypan's pressing harder on the bullet wound. It's almost stopped bleeding.  _ Maybe Thomas is in shock. Maybe he lost a lot on the way here. _

_ Is he bleeding internally? _

"Thomas, wake up!" 

"Shit, is he…?"

"He's breathing. Look."

"Shake him. See if he wakes."

"Thomas!"

"Anything?"

"No, he's out."

"Shit. How-"

"We're here!"

With two words breaking through the chaos, the rear door opens again and a team of medics swarms in, one group heading straight for Newt and the other for Thomas. Within minutes, they've been carried out, leaving Fry and his remaining friends to wander out after them, wondering what the hell just happened and whether either of them can be saved. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. so for me will you stay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas wakes up alone in the Safe Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This (final) chapter is based on the song Lover by Truslow. Enjoy!

Thomas wakes with a start. 

_ He'd been dreaming. In the dream-- yet how it could be a dream and still feel so real? -- he'd been with Newt, perched on the rooftop, peering out at the walls of the Last City. It started off as a memory; he knew that now. It had really happened and Newt had really told him something that day. It was something he hadn't told to anyone else and something that only one other person knew, only because they'd been there.  _

_ Not only had Newt told Thomas that he had the Flare, but he had confessed to Thomas the darkest moment of his life. Newt, the most grounded, perceptive and captivating person Thomas had ever met, had once tried to end his own life. It was Minho who'd saved him. _

_ Newt had felt so broken and hopeless that he couldn't fathom there being a way forward. In his mind, the only way was out.  _

_ The thought alone broke Thomas' heart. _

_ Yet, Newt wasn't telling Thomas for the sake of becoming closer or confiding. Oh no, Newt was telling Thomas because Thomas would find out eventually that Newt had the Flare, and Thomas would want to save Newt. Newt had, as usual, thought this all the way through and was afraid his own health and Thomas' conscience would get in the way of their mission. He wanted to save Thomas the torment of having to save both of his friends. Newt wanted Thomas to choose Minho first. He wanted Minho to be saved, because Minho had once saved him.  _

_ But Thomas was having a hard time concentrating on the plan ahead because there was this oh-so-distracting feeling as if someone had plunged a fist deep into his chest and squeezed his heart with all their strength. Each word that Newt spoke, Thomas felt as if it was a blow to the chest. Punch after punch after punch, until he was both breathless and speechless. _

_ And Newt had looked at him, watching for a reaction, like this was a test of Thomas' friendship. Would Thomas honour Newt's request? In the memory, Thomas knew what he'd really done; he'd told Newt that he heard him. He'd done exactly what Newt wanted, his own body feeling too numb with shock to come up with anything else. He'd agreed to follow Newt's wishes and do everything they could to get Minho back.  _

_ No matter what the cost.  _

_ But dream-state Thomas had stepped forward and sat beside Newt on the ledge. He angled himself toward his friend and wrapped one arm around him, then the other, pulling him into a tight hug.  _

_ Newt had hesitated for a brief second before embracing Thomas back, just as tightly. His long arms wrapped right around Thomas. One around his chest and the other over his shoulder. His chin fit perfectly into the crook of Thomas' neck. They remained there, motionless, holding on tight. Neither of them said a word. _

There's a cold breeze and Thomas wakes up.

It doesn't take long for his heart to start pounding. He can't place where he is; the canopy above him and the shelves surrounding him are nothing familiar. He pushes himself up to the edge of the bed he's on and hisses when a burning hot, concentrated pain erupts in his side. With a shaking hand, consciousness now truly setting in, he reaches up to feel the thick array of bandages around his waist, frowning in confusion.

Like a jolt of electricity, the memory returns.

_ Newt _ .

A cold, paralysing fear seems to creep its way through his body, locking Thomas in place. He remembers the puddle of blood, Newt's white-grey skin, eyes shut, his body still and lifeless. He knows he's lost his best friend. They had so far still to come from that flight in the berg and Thomas had watched as Newt's erratic breathing slowed, then became laboured and heaving.  _ Did it stop? _ Thomas remembers the way Newt's limbs had thrashed violently before his muscles weakened and he fell limp. The dark, angry veins on his face and arms had faded as Newt's skin turned a sickening shade of grey, his flushed cheeks a distant memory. Each sign of life became fainter and fainter.  _ Gone. _

Thomas takes a deep, shaky breath and closes his eyes. Reality is nauseating.

Newt's dead. That's why Thomas has this sinking feeling in his stomach. That's why the world's stopped turning and the air feels thick and heavy.

Was that dream on the rooftop Newt's way of saying 'goodbye'?

Thomas lurches forward, wrapping his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to keep composure. They found Minho, didn't they? They rescued him. Newt would be proud-- Newt  _ was  _ proud. When they'd found Minho… well, Thomas hadn't seen Newt smile so genuinely in a long time. Newt had truly felt he'd made the right decision for himself. Seeing Minho, escaping WCKD with him-- to Newt that was the biggest reward, no matter the cost.

_ No matter the goddamn cost. No matter his own life. _

The door of Thomas' hut is ajar and he can see a bright band of blue sky awaiting him. He can hear the gentle crashing of waves to the shore and the light breeze upon the straw roof, rustling. 

_ Paradise.  _

The thought is bitter.

He hesitates to go out there. Once he steps outside, that's it. That's Thomas walking into a new life. His new life. Without Newt. 

He takes in a deep breath. Everything feels so wrong. He should be so happy and so grateful to be here but his whole body seems to be coated in the heavy sensation of being numb. There's a part of him that believes he's still dreaming. He wants to hold on to that; believing it makes more sense than really being here.

Outside, he knows he'll find his friends. They'll be waiting for him. He knows the looks they'll give him too: remorse, grief, pity. Nothing they can do will bring Newt back and they all know it.

But Minho will be there. He'll be there because Newt saved him. Minho's life was Newt's dying wish and it came true. Thomas needs to honour that now.

So, Thomas stands and makes his way over to the door. There's a sense of impending despair that tries to pull him back to bed. Guilt and heartache stir up a lethal concoction in his stomach but he fights it off, pushing past the rising nausea. He stands and he walks to the door. For Newt. For Newt and for Minho.

Reaching out, his hand quivers, but the curtain pulls back all the same. Beyond his door lies a bright world that sends doubt pulsing through his mind. It's so bright and it's so warm and Thomas feels so calm that for a second his mind wanders. Is he dead too?

But the wind has a certain chill to it and the smell of seaweed wafts through to him. Details that make too much sense to be falsified. This feels real. 

He steps outside to look around and is surprised by the lush grass beneath him, soft, cushioning each step. The feeling triggers a memory, which flickers through his mind like a flash of lightning. Green grass and Newt's smiling face, squinting in the sunlight as he walks over to greet him. There for a moment, then gone. Thomas feels his chest tighten and breathing becomes a chore, the sudden intrusiveness of the memory shocking him. 

_ It’s just a memory. Stop thinking about it. He’s gone. Focus on now. _

To Thomas' right, there's a distant hum of activity. Talking, laughter, movement-- he doesn't turn towards it, knowing that he'll only see what's missing from the scene. Thomas hears a lot of different voices --joking around or yelling out instructions-- but he doesn't hear Newt's. He never will again.

Before he allows that thought to sink in, the crash of a wave meeting the sand draws his attention and Thomas' gaze settles upon the sea. The sun bounces off the surface, causing it to glimmer with specks of white, gold and silver. It expands further than Thomas can see; crystal blue, vast and mesmerizing. Something about it reminds him how to breathe.

So he does breathe and, as he does so, he turns toward the sound of people that he's been trying to avoid. He knows he's putting everything off, just that little bit longer, as if doing so will make this all less real.

Nearing the sound, he starts to see more huts, people moving around, the beginning of some gardens, some planting already taking place. He closes his eyes for just a moment, willing his mind not to take him back there again. Not yet; that was too much.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Minho. This is the moment it all sinks in. They'd been apart for so long and everyone had worked so hard to bring him back-- to save him. Now, he's here -- _ he's really here _ \--, which means the rescue did happen. All of it. Every single part. It was all real.  _ Oh, god. _

When Minho looks up from what he's doing, he locks eyes with Thomas and stands up, making his way towards him at a slow pace, bracing himself for Thomas' reaction. Thomas tries to smile, to offer some reassurance that everything will be okay. 

_ But how could it be? _

The smile doesn't happen. He can't force it. Instead, he blinks and a tear traces its way down his cheek. He must've started crying.

A pair of blurry arms reach out and pull Thomas into a hug, leaving no space between them. Thomas hugs back, clinging to Minho with all the energy he has left. Their chins dig deep into each other's shoulders and Thomas can tell that this moment means just as much to Minho as it does to him; they've made it, but at a devastating cost. Thomas doesn't want to let go. He blinks again and more tears fall.

Minho is the one to pull away first. He turns so that Thomas can see the others-- his friends, his family. Frypan, Gally, Jorge, Brenda, Sonya, Harriet. One by one, he embraces them all too. Frypan is last and, when Thomas steps back from the hug, his friend holds him there.

"There's something you need to see," Frypan says, his eyes teeming with sympathy.

Thomas frowns and only manages a quick glance towards the others before Frypan is leading him away. They all look worried, like they're waiting for him to crack, to break down in front of them and never recover. He wonders where Frypan is leading him. They weave their way through all the construction of their haven, past smiling faces and little nods in Thomas' direction. He feels the bile building in the back of this throat and chooses not to look at them anymore. He's not going to see the smile he wants most.

_ Greenbean, meet Newt. _

Thomas shakes his head quickly. For the first time, he sees the appeal of wiping his memories.

Another quick glance back reveals that the others are following at a distance. He feels a worrying pang of curiosity.  _ What do they want me to see? _

"Fry?" he asks, deciding the suspense was enough. "Where are we going?"

The look in Frypan's eyes scares Thomas. It tells him that Fry doesn't have the words to describe where they're going. An impending sense of doom begins to settle in Thomas' stomach, and he feels as if they're all marching towards some very bad news.

"Here," Frypan announces, though his voice is cracked and quiet. "Get yourself in."

They've arrived at a small, nondescript hut. It's straw and looks very much like the one Thomas had woken up in, the only real difference being that it's located on the opposite side of the campsite. 

A billion questions flutter through Thomas' mind, but asking any one of them would take longer than stepping inside, so with a brief sideways glance at Fry, he pushes back the fabric door and steps into the hut.

His legs give out beneath him.

It's _ Newt.  _ He's there. Right there. They've laid his body on a bed and it almost fools Thomas into thinking he's just asleep. His eyes are closed and he looks oddly peaceful. They've even gone to the effort to clean the blood and change him out of that terrible guard's uniform, into something that's more…  _ Newt.  _

But Thomas hates it. He hates the way that he looks asleep. He hates the way that Newt looks so at home; his clothing comfortable and hair all tidied. 

_ Dressed for his own funeral. _

For a moment, Thomas feels a surge of anger. This, before him, cleaned up with no sign of the virus or the wound that killed him-- it doesn't reflect what Newt went through. To Thomas, they've cleaned it all up and brushed it aside. Newt has to look  _ at peace  _ with the world. 

Thomas finds the strength to pick himself up and step closer, towards his friend. He reaches out a hand and takes hold of Newt's. It's not as cold as he expected-- then again, he hadn't spent a great deal of time holding the hands of dead people. That is what he's doing, isn't it? Newt's dead. His body's right here, lying before him. Newt's gone.

Thomas slowly drops Newt's hand and lets it fall limply from the bed, not quite reaching the floor. He sits back on his heels, trying to work out what to do, how to process it all. Thomas tries to figure out how to go on without Newt.

Then it catches his eye. Movement. Just slightly. 

Thomas looks to the source, knowing it has to be some cruel trick. He did lose a lot of blood --he was hit by a bullet-- maybe he's hallucinating. He has to be hallucinating.

He watches, waits. Newt's chest rises and falls. He's breathing.

_ Newt's alive. _

Thomas breathes out and a strange noise fills the room as everything he's been holding back comes tumbling out -- a surge of emotion as the heavy sob escapes his lips, choking him. Without warning, his knees buckle, and he's burying his face into the side of the bed, grasping Newt's pale hand in both of his own, squeezing tightly. 

There's a voice in the back of his mind, wanting to hide this away and stay strong, carry on, but the shock and relief is too overwhelming to suppress. He's never felt it like this before. There was no doubt in Thomas' mind that Newt was dead, but now he's right here, in front of his eyes, breathing in and out.  _ Alive.  _ Thomas shudders with each following sob, pressing his face further into the bed. 

Within seconds, he feels a hand on his shoulder. Then another. One on his back, rubbing little circles between his shoulder blades. A forehead rests against his upper arm. His friends are here.

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Thomas stammers, after a few minutes, trying to catch his breath. "Why didn't you just tell me he was alive?"

"Would you have believed us?" Brenda murmurs. It was her head resting on him.

Her question slows his sobs as he mulls it over.  _ Would he have believed them?  _ He's not entirely sure he believes it now. There are few things tethering him to reality-- the sting of his tears, the pain in his side, and the quiet, mesmerising presence of Newt's breathing. He lifts his head from the bed, eyes glued to the blurry figure on the bed.

This, right now, is real. Being here, feeling Newt's hand in his, the way it warms him,  _ that _ convinces Thomas this is real. No words could ever explain it.

Thomas shakes his head slowly, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He leans forward and rests his chin on Newt's hand, still clasped by both of his own.

"They don't know when he'll wake up," says Frypan. There's an unspoken  _ 'if'  _ somewhere in that sentence. "He did lose a lot of blood."

"He'll make it."

It’s a new voice that speaks, breaking through Thomas' train of thought. He stands up defensively. It's a voice he hardly hears, so out of place and filling him with so much conflicting emotion. She's here too.

_ Teresa _ .

“What’s she doing here?” Gally voices what the rest of the group is probably thinking. Thomas, somehow, feels even more relieved. 

Teresa steps forward from the doorway. “I was just… I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” she gestured vaguely towards Newt.

“Yeah? Well, we’ve got eyes for ourselves. We don’t need yours. Get out.”

Teresa looks from Gally to Thomas, as if Thomas might defend her. Truthfully, Thomas doesn’t know what to say. Teresa’s a big part of the reason Newt’s still alive, isn’t she?

“How’re you feeling?” she asks him, glancing at his side, which his hand has absentmindedly made its way to hold. He drops it. 

“Fine.”

He doesn’t really know why he says that. Does he really feel fine? No. No, he doesn’t. Not in the slightest. But saying it means avoiding how he really feels.

Before Teresa can pry further, Thomas turns back to Newt. If the others would let him, he’d stare all day, marvelling at how  _ alive _ he is -- heart beating, skin warm, lungs breathing,  _ alive. _

Thomas crouches beside him once more and hears Teresa leave the room. There’s a hand on his shoulder and Thomas frowns, looks up. Minho.

“Thanks for saving us, man.”

The look in Minho’s eyes holds equally as much gratitude as it does pain. Thomas just nods once, pursing his lips to prevent his own words from failing him.

~

It takes three more days for Newt to wake up. The first day was touch and go --rapid breathing, a fever, rising pulse. The next day, it started to settle; the infection was clearing, the wound was healing; Newt was coming back. On day three, he started to stir in his sleep, twitching and sighing every so often. It seemed less like a coma and more like a deep night’s sleep. More  _ normal. _

Thomas had been there through most of it. Well, as much as the others allowed. He’s been forced to help out around the campsite. Nothing strenuous, just chopping vegetables or helping in the garden. Nothing that would aggravate the hole in his side.

That’s where he is, picking lettuce with Sonya, when Gally calls out from Newt’s hut. At first, Thomas’ heart drops, his instincts assuming the worst; they’ve lost him. He’s gone. 

Then Gally’s words register.

“Greenie, he’s awake!”

Thomas drops what he’s doing and runs.

In the room lies Newt. He’s in the same position as before, flat on his back, arms to his sides. Only now his head is turned towards the doorway, his eyes are open and wide, and when they find Thomas’, his lips press into a small, tight, tired, but genuine smile. 

“Hey, Tommy. How are ya?”

Thomas stands, frozen in the doorway, as those words reach his ears.  _ Did Newt just ask how he was?  _ Newt, who’d just caught, endured, and survived the Flare? Newt, who’d been stabbed in the chest by an actual, real, physically existing  _ knife  _ and only just woken up? Newt, who Thomas cared so much about and who Thomas had spent days worrying agonisingly about? Newt had asked how  _ he  _ was?

In the absence of knowing what-the-hell-else to do, for the first time in what feels like years, Thomas laughs.

It hurts his side, but he doesn’t care. It makes Newt frown, but he doesn’t care. Again, for the first time in a long time, Thomas doesn’t care. He keeps laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

Newt’s voice is croaky and strained, so he coughs in a feeble attempt to clear it. Thomas, still smiling, rolls his eyes, hurries over and grabs a bottle of water from the nightstand. He tucks his hand under Newt’s head and lifts it, ever so slightly, and touches the bottle to his lips just enough to let him drink without choking.

When he’s done, Thomas lowers him back to the pillow.

“Needed that,” Newt mutters, his voice already sounding clearer.

“I bet,” Thomas smirks. “Welcome back. And, to answer your question, I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Mm.” Newt coughs a little and blinks his eyes closed with a quick wince. “I’m very good at not dying.”

“What you need to work on is not  _ almost _ dying,” Thomas raises his eyebrows. “I’d appreciate it.”

Newt sighs and his eyes fall shut. “Nobody’s perfect. Contrary to popular opinion, not even me.” 

His forehead creases and Thomas knows he must be in pain. How he’s still managing to crack jokes at a time like this is beyond Thomas. 

He chuckles quietly. “When did you become so arrogant?”

Newt’s eyes are closed again and he ignores Thomas’ question, instead filling the room with a long groan. “Who the hell hit me with a truck? I feel awful. What the hell happened?”

The question throws Thomas. He’d assumed Newt would remember. He turns back to the doorway and sees that Gally’s left, probably to find Minho and give Thomas the time he needs with Newt.

“You don’t remember?” Thomas asks tentatively, turning back to Newt.

There’s only a few seconds of innocence before Newt’s eyes open wide, staring straight up at Thomas, realisation painted clearly across his features. He opens his mouth to speak and his voice fails him, so he closes his mouth, swallows, and tries again.

“Shit, Tommy. I didn’t…. I guess that all seemed so bad that I… I was willing it not to be true.”

Thomas shrugs in a way that feels entirely unnatural, but he hopes is at the very least reassuring. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Newt doesn’t respond, just crinkles his forehead in a deeper frown.

“Newt? You good?”

“Headache.”

Thomas grabs a cloth and wets it in a bucket outside before bringing it over to place across Newt’s forehead.

He sighs. “Thanks, Tommy.”

Suddenly, Thomas can’t hold back any more. “How’s your chest?”

“Pretty sore.”

A pause.

“Do you want to sit up?”

“Not particularly.”

A smaller pause.

“Are you still feeling sick?”

“I’m not madly flailing a knife towards you, am I?”

Thomas’ flow of questions comes to an abrupt halt and suddenly he can’t bring himself to speak, held back by the lump that’s formed in his throat.

Newt’s eyes crack open and he peers at Thomas through half lids before closing them again. “Sorry, mate. Only thing left is this headache, if that’s what you mean. Whatever you did, it worked. It’s working.”

It’s Thomas’ turn to frown. “I didn’t think you’d remember that part.”

Newt huffs out a shallow, breathy laugh. “I remember all of it.”

For some reason, that hurts Thomas more than anything else. To know that Newt was in there, conscious enough to remember what his body was doing, to feel himself losing control, that was heartwrenching.

“Thank you.” Newt’s quiet voice breaks Thomas from his thoughts.

“Huh?”

“You never gave up on me. You put your own life on the line to prove that. Tommy, thank you. It’s nice to be cared for.”

Thomas laughs. “Yeah, well, I love you.”

The phrase leaves his mouth before he even registers himself speaking. In the same instant, a thousand alarms go off in his brain, flashing red lights and panic, matching the blush that rushes into his cheeks. His heart jumps and then pounds rapidly.  _ Why did you say that? Why did you say that? How could you say that?  _

Quickly, Thomas tries to backtrack.

“I just… I mean… you’re just… I meant that I… I don’t… I wasn’t… JESUS CHRIST! I’m sorry, Newt. I just meant… you mean a lot to me…. man.”

Newt, meanwhile, throughout Thomas’ sorry excuse for a coherent sentence, has his eyes wide open, locked on Thomas, and they’re not closing now. He’s silent.

“Newt, please don’t. I just meant…. that came out so wrong, I swear!”

Newt glances up at the ceiling and back to Thomas, a smile now forming on his lips. “Tommy?”

Some frantic arm waving has now joined Thomas’ long list of attempts to take his words back and he’s barely listening. “I just… you need to…. I didn’t mean for that to… that sounded-”

“Tommy!”

The flailing halts. “Yeah?”

“Did you just confess your love to me on my deathbed?”

“I-” Thomas decides to shut up, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole, right now.

Then he seems to remember that he is Thomas and, by the very definition, is incapable of shutting up, so he speaks, rashly, once more.

“It’s not your deathbed if you’re getting better.”

Newt’s smile only grows and his eyes squint in thought. “You know, nearly dying does a lot of crazy klunk to you. It makes you question a lot of what you’ve done, for one. You wonder what would happen if you’d done things differently. What would it change? Would you still be dying? If you had another chance at it, would you take a different route? For me, the answer was a simple ‘no’. We’d escaped the maze, survived the Scorch and rescued Minho. I’d done every single little thing I’d set out to do. The only thing left was for my friends to make it to the Safe Haven. I had faith that they would. I was at peace.”

“Newt-”

“Slim it, you interrupting shank, and let me talk. This is important. Facing death also makes you question what you might be missing out on. The Safe Haven was one, of course. Safety, freedom, a new life-- one we deserved. I thought of you all growing old. Little Minhos and Thomases chasing each other around on the sand. Grey hair. Wrinkles. So many happy memories to reflect on, stories to tell. I’d miss that, but it didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen. That was comforting, at least.”

Thomas was getting fidgety. He’d blurted a stupid, life-changing confession and all this talk and anticipation was only confusing him more. “Newt, where are you going with this?”

“I told you it was important. There was one thing that kept me wondering. Just one, among hundreds of thoughts, rational and otherwise. This one thing always had me wondering, guessing, trying to keep up. It played on my mind, day and night, from the first moment it came into my life.”

Thomas snickers nervously. “Was it Minho’s hair?”

There’s a warmth that Newt has always had. It’s in his eyes, his face, the way he speaks. To Thomas, it makes him feel everything has fallen into place and all is right in the world again. Newt’s warmth could heal anything, and, right now, his expression, the way he looks at Thomas, is so warm that Thomas’ eyes prickle from the heat. It’s only now, when it’s stronger than ever, that he begins to realise what the warmth is.

“It was you, Tommy. Always.”

“Newt. What do you mean?”

“I love you back.”

The words hit Thomas in full force and he’s sure he’s never looked more taken aback. His mouth opens and shuts, gaping like a fish out of water and his eyes widen, unblinking as he just stares at Newt, trying to work out if maybe this is all a dream. Maybe they did both die.

Then Newt’s hand reaches out and Thomas grasps it without hesitation. Their fingers interlock and Thomas feels a thud in his chest, like the last puzzle piece has slotted into place. He feels complete. No more mysteries, lies or confusion. There’s nothing left to figure out. For once in his life, to Thomas, everything feels right. He’s not lost anymore.

“We did it,” he whispers.

Newt smiles that beautiful, healing smile at him. “I’ve always believed in you. You know that.”

With a huff of breath, Thomas nods sheepishly, recalling a now-distant memory. “You once said you’d follow me anywhere.”

“I remember that,” Newt mused. “I must say, this is the best place you’ve ever led me -- led  _ us _ . We could all do with a home.”

Newt’s grip tightened on Thomas’ hand in a way that Thomas was sure he’d never get tired of.

“Well then. Day One, Newt. Rise and shine.”

Newt laughs, trying not to jostle himself too much as he does so. 

“Newt?”

“Yeah?”

“Welcome home.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
